hogzila was strachlelled or a smoothy after pine through the dry cleaning or nosing the rows of baby food watching as humans enact all the sad and lonely erands of our lines among the plastic singing trout and the caged parakeets the twin poodles yap nothing a locked mercedes. all ghost wanted was a stand of trees, bark to rub against and a scattering of a corns. a corns fall from oaks and we cut those down. hogzila murderer speaks. i summon you from the swamp and holler. a red cheeked salamander in your stomach. when i saw you i littered up my rifle with buck shot and took aim. you were the most beautiful hog

i had seen that's why i had to make you die to convince my friends of high heroism. i had not done in life cleaning up beer cans after the hunters left. but as i told that lady from the new york times after offering her fanta, which she refused, the whole country will eat humble pie after the scientists dig up the body of hogzila and see the greetness of exactly what i have done. thanks. >> it's a pleasure to be here. i will jump right into this. i figured anticipation of halloween i would read a story about witches this is the beginning and ending of a story questions of lawed blue fly. coming home from school on a monday morning in spring saddy

stepped through a hole in the school yard fence on to the hem of her dress. when she straightened the left sleeve separated. her brother heard it rip. he turned and saw his little sister's bony shoulder naked to the world. saddy stood trembling her black eyes 2 burnt holes the leave of her only school dress hanging by threads. madison grinned. now you done it. he pick the the ripped sleeve from her arm and let it call again. you should tear the other side then they would be the same. be quiet. you could be a fancy woman. he leaned down his hot breath in her ear you could be a bear breasted hoar. saddy staired at her feet. i saw this fancy woman once madison said.

he put his arm around her sister and guided her along the path. she took all the feeling from a man's toes. she gave him a foot rub. when she got to the toes she put them in her mouth. saddy squinted at her brother. it's true. one by one she sucked them and they were dirty. but when she was done you know what? the man started hollering he says, i cannot feel my toes. he jumps up and waddels like a turkey. he didn't know he didn't have any toes anymore. madison grinned the woman was a witch much the fields were soft to the touch. all the way home madison told

his sister about the witches and the world. when the saudi came to view he stopped talking the door was open the inside shadowy. there was no one in sight but he could hear his sister in law kth rin talking to blue flies. madison tucked his chin as if against the weather. something about the air felt dense. something felt like pushing against water on a flooded plain. well, a lot happens between now and the next morning i will sum it up quickly. madison's sister in law, kith rin refuses to fix saddy's dress and saddy has to wear it to school like that the next day which embarrasses her. madison and katherine had a

flirtation going on his sister in law is a few years older than him. next day madison feels sorry from saddy he decides he will sew up her sleeve for her. so this happens walking to school. slowly, saddy unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to her feet. she watched her brother sew because his fingers were stiff and cold and would not move he jabbed them again and again and when the blood came he sucked it until it was gone much the stitches were jag ed some tiny dots some long lines. the sleeves tucks too far in so the sleeve cuffed high on her wrist. material bunched at her neck giving it a hump. she had a lopsided look but

smiled at her brother. all that morning madison watched his sister where she sat with the younger children her sleeve a bump on her shoulder. he thought how it used to be when they lived in town with their own man. a lot of the time it was madison and saddy alone in the house. mark would get money and their dad would go off on a drunk. mornings then the sun rose behind saddy's highs she would say, maddy you are hungry. he would say what time is it? she would say, time to go hunting. sometimes they did went hunting and didn't go to school just the 2 of them they took the short cut home that afternoon much the morning rain had blown over and

the fields steamed in the afternoon heat. yellow dandy lions dotted the sage brush and the moist earth sucked their shoes. maddy grinned thinking about what katherine might say. she would say, maddy did you do this? he would say, yes , i did. as they got closer to home, he saw smoke blazing into the sky where the saudi would be. they had built the fire she and his brother mark. saddy was walking ahead. madison looked at the drunken line of stitches on her sleeve the crook ed seam and the knot of material that rode her shoulder like a hump much the air began to feel thick like

water. wait. he grabbed her arm and picked at the stitches he had made. saddy tried to wrench away but he picked frantically at her sleeve and the dark fury the new look that made him shiver that was not her sister came into her eyes. he didn't let go, this is no good don't worry. madison picked andtory the thread until it came loose and the blue fly witch could not tell what he had done. saddy went limp. she stared off toward the poppy mark had planted which stuck like finger bones out of the earth. thank you. >> hi. nice to be here. i came on the 14 mission bus.

to spend 6 minutes with you. [laughter]. if there is time left over after my reading i will do knife tricks. [laughter]. short story from my collection, called love. this is a typical sunday night in the mission. rose colored dreams. what is juanita doing selling roses in the mission. wine colored, blood colors and pink roses wrapped in cellophane stuck in a plastic bucket half his size. 10 years looked like 30 stamped on his forehead a strong wind could blow him to daly city. the town of his birth. all the regular customers, the soft bellied ones and the lean

ones the hard face cabdrivers, the triose know his face. his faded blue sweater and his profile like [inaudible]. his cow lick in black mop of hair. [inaudible] johnitto should be only asleep. you know the place the apartment building on 17th street through the lobby door with busted lock under the sign that says no loitering past the mildew that curdled your brain up 3riccety stairs belly up below the broken window. in bed the mattress on the floor he shares with his older sisters johnitto will dreechl a baseball glove or the perfect tail for a

kite. [inaudible] 24th street with the one seed always frozen near the bottom. but the family needs more than dreams that's why my mom, sisters travelled by bus pulled by something stronger than destiny to this 2 room battleground of survival. this minute as he treads mission mama in the apartment on a sewing machine, zig-zagy threads fine as spider webs running down pants late into the appeal yellow hours of her seemingly endless nights. the 2 sisters with fingers delicate as ballerinas stitch beads tiny as drops that will

sell for hundreds of dollars of which they will receive 25. the baby will be in the cardboard crib. and lost in dreams thick as cataracts will be chanting prayers to my an gods after an alter of bee's wax candles and pepsi soda bottles. the inscents unravelling in a stream toward the water stain on the seceiling that looks like a map of latin america. this is not mexico city where indian families wrapped in newspapers huddel uppered the monument of the revolution. this is not where girls peddle chicklets on street corners no

this is lamission. land of palm trees and skyscrapers where there is dollars enough for cell phones, sports cars and [inaudible] by the trunk full. where a suitcase of cocaine is as easy to buy as a broken stemmed rose from his white bucket. how much for that hand full of rose buds? for fingers go up. he makes change for a 20, returns clefrjed winched with b. you tip him a couple of dollars, so what. every love struck couple stairing into each other's eyes. every loner with a half empty beer even a waitress after a

shift receives a visit from john nitto. he returns to the faces above the steaming plates before he's out into the neon lit street leaving behind a trail of rose petals bark as sacrificial hearts. thank you. [applause]. >> whenever i had writer's block i do research so i thought i would redo a section which started as writer's block and it took place in a library. i think all you need to know is my narrater is 19. the object of affection is 21. max's mother is a piannist and

also polish. >> i saw little of rose after she moved her 2 valises into the nurses room on valentine's day of 1939. she did not allow a gust to drive her to the louve. she did not pause to look at me when i went to the gallery wearing a new shirt. nor did she take meals to my families. sometimes this was the best. at the dinner table my parents argued. father had been unsuccessful in keeping the newspapers from others. she practiced less and less. germany is not poland said my father. there are no contacts in berlin. >> he's a crazy man when i hear him on the radio. i can barely

understand the german he's speaking he's an austrian, no, but his accent is fake. the geshel speaks perfectly. he must be the envy of singers every where. my father reached across his dinner plate and laid a hand on hers. she snatched it away. you know nothing. now you have butter on your sleeve. we neither mentioned our absent guest nor the chair awaiting her except on one occasion. father reported [inaudible] called a certain gog an a good deal. princess never spoke of money and bought paintings without inquiring about the price she left those details to her lawyer.

snobby old cow is hamy father called her. i felt sorry for rose with father it was easy to make a mistake and not know it. you could sense it but not identify the crime much the second week of rose's apprenticeship the empty fourth chair disappeared. thank god you stop wearing that wretch ed clone. all my food tasted like must have beening. pity the polls they lost you. my mother said no they are trying to jerk germany off with one hand and the soviet unions with the other. weate in silence. the madam took hot long showers because i heard water rushing in the pipes and whether i turned mine on found it cold. a yellow square in the courtiard into the night.

i watched for a shadow or shape. rigging a motorcycle mirror on a string and dangled it on a fishing lure and failed. i skulted in the hall way in the gallery and street hoping to catch her there. it only upset my father. we spoke german to each other as a nervous joke. i tinkered with the motorcycle mirror a started lifting bar bells. for a month mother talked of the germany refugee question and asked if it was better for jews to go to the philippines or the dominican republic. pius 11th was buried. the discover of king tut's tomb

also died. the italians called a call to arms to war babies the first time around. when i visited the draft board i noticed my card was filed with a crease at it's corner. farther's laughter was louder than ever. clients who decided to buy had their paintings shipped to houses in the country. i noticed lucie hiding bags of sugar in the closet where i kept my tennis racket. to mother he repeated. don't worry, she replied, i do. i wonder if they rrmed they had a son at all. yet that month seemed to pass more slowly than others. rose's presence was fleeting. i passed by father's office as she sat by the type writer in a green sweater with a hole in the

elbow. i found her in the bathroom once with a black tongue as a pen had burst when she licked it's anybody. i handed her a towel and said, just ruin the cloth. to the light in the courtyard i sang along with my new american record. there is a hungry yearning burning inside of me and i felt every word in the marrow of my bones. august said, i hate this cold porter so a played the album at a low volume and closed the window. when my curiousity about rose overwhelmed my common sense i investigated her living quarters i found her diaries and learned the secrets of her heart. searching in the spice cabinet lucie kept full of whisky i

found a key. i planned my invasion for that afternoon. thank you very much. [applause] >> i wrote a new book i'm working on. i'm from mexico city and i write about mexican stuff. i fear i would write a book to deal with that and get it out of the way. this is part of this project. my main character is alexander. [inaudible] don't take it personal. my aim, i guess is to at the end of my novel that [inaudible] good mexican novelists. alexander looked at the mirror and saw a mexican stairing back at him. the bad mexican had paid

alexander a visit much the conversation from last night's party brought him back in full force. why did he always have to open his big mouth. why tell people that don't care that he hated and despised? he actually might like the [inaudible] hated me english and spanish he could not understand how someone could say he was mexican having been born in the usa. he doesn't like going to mexican places. he does not like to discuss beer and shots of tequilla. he never listened to spanish radio stations. no more mexicans. who did not have a problem being objective with a mexican.

[inaudible]. i should try to do something about this he thought this is not good. may be i should try, may be i should make an effort. may be i should drive to the mission and spend quality time with my own people. i'm sure it would be simple. he doesn't have to be so hard. i am sure anyone who looks at me and talks to me will believe i'm another south of the border specimen and never figure out i happen to be a self hating mexican. the self hating something made him think of the self hating jew. he thought of george constanza and woody allen. he thought of philip and alexander's father yelling and screaming telling his son he was the son of the family shames.

you don't be deserved to be called a view. you, alexander are being embarrassed by the surface of the mirror. you don't deserve to be a mexican. nor the fact that mexicans are the hardest working people and came here to work and give their children a better future. there is no mexican who tried to justify with arguments like a fantasy to celebrate cinco de mayo. you, my friend are the self hating [inaudible] of all mexicans. you are nothing but a big master baeter. foolish man who hides from the rest of the world and sees his shame in order to dream a man can exist without a pas port or

green card and labels him as what he is. remember the ones who tried to pass as something else? remember the [inaudible] of life. the [inaudible] of the nation of the [inaudible]. remember the guy from tijuana you met years ago and is proclaimed he was italian because he would and people believed him. as if being italian was a step up. you alexander have changed your entire people. you who dream of an american time will be relevant you can think in order to be an american writer you have to quit your brownness because the adjective will get in the way of the

important noun. english language will impose the adjective before the noun and your face will be imposed before the actual meaning of your life. the other one is not the [inaudible] but the black parent. that one there is the yellow which he willo player. language makes sense [inaudible] language is never innocent. it is a familiar domaine of the ones who came out with it's loss and structure. this, alexander, is not your tongue. your tongue is muteulated, it's gone, rotten in your mouth along with the silence of the days where you became invisible you bad copy cat. despite the rage and the disappointment of your own kin. thank you. [applause]

>> this is a scene from my novel [inaudible]. it seemed like a great opportunity to get to do this here. okay. what time is the first reader anyway? i didn't like bars this crowded. someone elbode me in the back. when i turned around i didn't know who the elbow belong said. relax. i didn't expect there to be this many people i thought they would be at the bar with the travel writers. i thought they the be with the hip sters i guess we are not hip sters we can't guess who they are into. we lessened the hipster intimidation factor and picked out the smart guy. this year we selected postmen pausal writers on the meaning of life. here i was, the city never fails

to surprise me much the crowd was quieting. people were pointing toward the stage. i woman of 60 clamored on to it. she had silver hair and had a long velvet skirt. i'm senora watson. there was applause. she lowered her head slightly to indicate her humility. i must confess i was surprised to be invited tonight. i'm embarrassed to say i didn't know young people were drunkenly stumbling through the streets in the name of literature. there is a mag natizism we were tealing. we were in a bar. here is my flawed worthwhile attempt to approach the meaning of life. she read a first person account

of a 23 year marriage. every word of every paragraph was tuned there was not a wrong note. it was so powerful imented to believe it was her marriage. that last paragraph contained the wedding vow when he swore he would not be afraid to let her chafrnl him much the crowd froze after she finished. then we exploded into applause. she stood in the spotlight with tears in her eyes. she's a retired psychotherapist. >> go to her. this was a scene of a romantic comedy. i had to catch her at the airport before she left me forever. she was